


warm heart

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brain Tumour, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John-ish, FTH, Fandom Trumps Hate, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, First Kiss, Hair Loss / Hair Falling out, Happy Ending, Head Shaving, Hurt/Comfort, John is a good guy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Fic, Medical Procedures, Medical Terminology, Miscommunication (mild), Not cancer, One-Shot, POV John Watson, Radiation Treatment, Seizure, Sherlock is in a rough place for a bit, Sherlock is sick, Sick Fic, Sickfic, Side Effects, Steroids, Surgery, Symptoms of brain tumour, Time Skips, Vomiting scene, hair cutting, prompt, radiotherapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23224843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: The first time Sherlock stumbles, it is in front of the entire NSY police force.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 263
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	warm heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OmalleyMeetsTibbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/gifts).



> My wonderful friend Clare gave me the prompt of having John shave Sherlock's head for any reason of my choosing, angst allowed, with the tenet that it ends happily. Her prompt inspired this sickfic.
> 
> ————
> 
> I've tried to be as accurate as possible with the medical terminology and procedures (spent a few hours doing research on brain surgery and tumours), but bear with me if there's any inaccuracies as I am not, obviously, a brain surgeon (ha). 
> 
> If anyone feels there are any tags I missed that should be added, please let me know!
> 
> title from _medicine_ by daughter
> 
> _you've got a warm heart  
>  you've got a beautiful brain  
> but it's disintegrating  
> from all the medicine  
> from all the medicine  
> from all the medicine  
> medicine_
> 
> _you could still be  
>  what you want to be  
> what you said you were  
> when you met me_
> 
> _you could still be  
>  what you want to  
> what you said you were  
> when I met you  
> when you met me  
> when I met you_

**Day 1**

The first time Sherlock stumbles, it is in front of the entire NSY police force. His face immediately twists into a sharp snarl. Donovan makes a snide comment, Lestrade looks on with concern, and John grips his hands into fists to keep from reaching out.

“You okay?” he asks, sidling up to Sherlock’s side a little later as the forensics team takes over the scene. The idling police cars paint red and blue over Sherlock's face in alternating flashes. 

“Fine, John.” Sherlock’s voice is hard, and John subsides. He nods with a tense jaw and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Sherlock looks strange, softer, despite his hard face. Something like vulnerability lurks at the edges of his tight mouth. John frowns, but he keeps the peace, holding his silence as he follows Sherlock toward the main road.

Watching him hail a cab, John is struck by how tired Sherlock looks. The shadows under his pale eyes are darker than usual, and John resolves to make sure he takes it easy after this case. It has been a week and a half of running through dark alleys, getting soaked through to the bone while Sherlock pieced together the solution, pulling information as if from the air itself. He had been bright and brilliant throughout, a radiant genius. John had felt drawn ever deeper into Sherlock’s dazzling presence. Now, Sherlock looks exhausted, swaying on his feet with his shoulders slumped.

“Come on." John places a light hand on Sherlock’s back, moving him toward a cab drifting to the curb. “Let’s get you home, get some food in you.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock mumbles. There’s a slight edge to his voice, almost like he is surprised by his own words. John licks his lips, taken aback. Sherlock is always hungry after a case, the needs of his body catching up to him at last in a ravenous demand for sustenance and sleep. Clearing his throat, John watches Sherlock slide into the cab.

“Well,” he says, slipping in after him, “you should eat something anyway. Eat, then sleep.” John tries to smile and finds the expression doesn’t quite fit. His chest feels tight, a faint hum of doubt rising at the back of his mind. “Doctor’s orders.” His tone is meant to sound joking, but it comes out strained, and Sherlock shoots him a quick, narrow-eyed look. There’s a moment between them as their eyes lock together in one of the strangely intense stares they often share before Sherlock turns away.

Leaning his forehead against the window, Sherlock nods. “All right." They subside into silence, and John watches the streetlights flicker over Sherlock’s pale face.

* * *

Back at the flat, with evening deepening outside the window, John tries to coax Sherlock into eating. His efforts are rewarded when Sherlock grabs the bowl of stir-fry from him with an annoyed noise, though he proceeds to barely pick at it. John settles onto the sofa beside him, turning on the telly to something simple. The kind of show they often watch together.

John glances at his watch, marking the time as only 7 pm. Sherlock stares at the television with a strange little frown digging grooves into the skin between and around his eyes.

“What is this?” Sherlock says slowly, squinting at the show. John blinks, licking his lips. 

“What do you mean?” he asks. Sherlock shifts, his pale eyes narrowing. 

“I don’t—” he pauses, clasping his hands in his lap. He makes a weird noise, and his hands come apart quickly as if he had touched something hot, instead of his own skin. Looking at John, he studies his face, then looks back to the television. “What are we watching?” The words sound like they could be rude, a demand that John stop forcing such crappy shows on them, but they hold no bite. Sherlock seems genuinely confused. John feels a sliver of uncertainty race up his spine because this is nothing new, the two of them sitting here, watching this show.

“It’s the Graham Norton show,” John replies slowly. “We—we watch it almost every week.” He speaks with caution as if Sherlock is someone who forgets things like this, though he isn’t. Sure, Sherlock often deletes information, but John knows he secretly likes the show. Knows he finds it amusing and enjoys analyzing the guests. John steels himself for a harsh response, perhaps a snarled reminder of Sherlock’s intellect, but none comes. Sherlock sits and stares at the screen, his eyes flickering to John again, then away.

“Right." His hands curl together in a slow, careful movement. Sherlock winces. It is a strange reaction, given how they are sitting peacefully in the darkened living room, with the noise from the television a low hum. 

John turns to face the man at his side. “Are you okay?” he asks, and Sherlock swallows. His throat bobs with the action, and John squints. Something feels off, his instincts twigging onto the unsettled edge to Sherlock’s posture. Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John gently nudges his leg with his knee. 

Sherlock’s response is immediate and unexpected; a visible pain reaction that has him jerking away from John with a loud breath, pulled in through his clenched teeth. John throws his hands up and leans away. “Sorry!” he says earnestly, shaking his head when Sherlock shoots him a hard look. “I didn’t—I... are you hurt or something?” 

“No.” Sherlock looks confused. Dazed. John hesitates before lowering his hands. 

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock stares at his own hands, settled in his lap and shakes his head. “I’m fine." John is far from convinced. His mouth tugs down at the corners, and his tongue darts out, licking over his bottom lip nervously.

“Sherlock—” Sherlock cuts him off with a raised hand, his face shuttering, turning cold and hard.

“I said I’m _fine_ , John.” The note of finality in his tone is heavy, and John nods, feeling tense.

“All right.” John turns back to the television, and they sit in silence. From the corner of his eye, John notices Sherlock’s hands are curled into claws in his lap, and he is frowning at the program, his eyes narrowed and bewildered. 

John tries to ignore his growing unease without much success. Eventually, the adrenaline of the past week begins to weigh on him, and his eyes grow heavy. Yawning, John watches the television with half-open eyes, barely taking in the show. The first program has ended, and an old black-and-white movie plays. Something about two elderly women killing lonely old bachelors, and their brother, who races around thinking he is Theodore Roosevelt. Any other evening, John thinks he might find it amusing. Tonight he just feels concerned. Off-balance.

His thoughts turn to Sherlock just as a warm weight lands against his side, and John resists the urge to jump. Sherlock is asleep and slipped sideways, his head pillowed awkwardly on John’s arm. Lifting it, John drops a cushion into his lap, shifting to let Sherlock sleepily arrange himself across the couch, cheek resting on the offered headrest in John's lap. It isn’t the first time Sherlock has disregarded John’s personal space for his own comfort, and he doubts it will be the last. 

The movie on the television is a soothing background hum, and John finds his eyes closing more and more frequently. He has a vague thought that he should get up and head to bed, but Sherlock is warm, and his breathing is low and steady, his usually severe face relaxed in sleep. John wars with himself, knowing he will wake up with a sore neck if he doesn’t make it upstairs to bed. He falls asleep mid-internal-argument, Sherlock’s balanced inhales and exhales lulling him into a dreamless rest. 

* * *

**Day 2**

John wakes to sunlight filling the sitting room. There is a crick in his neck, and the sound of a ringing mobile fills the room. He sits up straight, rubbing a hand over his face, wiping the grit of sleep from his eyes. Turning his head, he searches for the device, but the ringing stops before John can pinpoint the location.

Stretching, rolling his shoulders, he recalls the night before, and looks around. There is a cushion in his lap, and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. His coat is still hanging beside the door, so, likely, he is home. John glances at his watch, noting the time as 09:37 and frowns. A later sleep-in for Sherlock than usual, even after a case. Tilting his head, he listens and hears only silence. He wonders if Sherlock went to visit Mrs. Hudson. 

John scrapes tired fingers through his mussed hair, and rises, bending the kinks out of his neck and spine. Just as predicted, his body is sore from sleeping sitting up, but if it means Sherlock actually got some sleep, then so be it. Small sacrifices. 

A soft ding emerges from Sherlock’s coat, and John zeroes in on the sound, recognizing the voicemail tone. That explains the ringing phone. He considers checking it for Sherlock, then pushes the thought aside. Sherlock will likely be up soon, looking to drag John away on yet another case, with or without breakfast. Barely recovered from the last case, John trudges into the bathroom for a shower.

He takes his time, lathering up his hair and body, letting the warm spray soak into his sore, knotted muscles. The hot water loosens the stiff knot in his left shoulder, making it infinitely less useless, and John sighs, tilting his face up into the stream. The temperature makes his pores gasp. The hot water washes away the last dregs of exhaustion from a busy week spent chasing London’s worst down cramped alleyways and rain-slicked roads. 

Stepping out of the shower, John shuts off the water and towels dry, scrubbing at his wet hair until it sticks up in every direction. Peering into the mirror, John notes the length almost hangs into his eyes, silvery-grey streaks shooting through the sandier blonde strands. He slicks it into place, pushing the longer growth over to one side of his head in a sleek wave. Lips pursed, he evaluates the style, finds it almost rakish, and grins at his reflection. There is a light dusting of stubble, peppering his jaw and cheeks with reddish-blonde-black hues, and John rasps a palm over it. Considers shaving and decides against it. He feels lazy and languid, body warm and loose from the shower. Personal grooming be damned. Sherlock is liable to drag him through London on yet another case today. John feels he can allow himself this instance of indolence, if only for a day.

With the towel wrapped around his waist, John leaves the bathroom. On his way out, he glances at Sherlock’s door and sees it is still closed. Frowning, he makes his way upstairs to dress for the day. Clad in jeans and oatmeal jumper, John descends again, pausing to hang the damp towel up in the bathroom. 

There is still no sign of Sherlock. 

John’s mind flashes back to last night, recalling Sherlock’s strange behaviour. Not seeming to recognize the show they often watched together. Weird reactions to touch—even to his own hands, curled in his lap. 

Standing in the kitchen, inside the door from the stairs, John’s eyes flicker toward the closed door at the end of the hall. Maybe Sherlock had just been over-tired. It would explain the uncharacteristic lie-in. Teeth worrying at his bottom lip, John closes his eyes and goes over the past week, looking for anything that might have been particularly strenuous about this case. 

The only thing that stands out is after they had wrapped it up. When Sherlock stumbled at the crime scene. How tired he had looked, standing at the curb, waiting for a cab. 

His hands itch, tensing, the fingers flexed. John takes a step toward the closed bedroom door, then stops, hesitant.

Sherlock is tired. That’s all. Nothing more. 

John tells his doctor’s brain to stop running away without him. He tries to reign in the increasingly concerned thoughts, forcing himself to walk to the fridge and retrieve a jar of jam from inside. He drops a sliced English muffin into the toaster and sets the kettle on the stove. John moves through the motions of everyday domesticity. The actions—simple, predictable—soothe his inexplicable worry. 

Sherlock’s bedroom door remains closed, and John settles himself at the kitchen table with a jam-smeared half of English muffin in one hand and warm tea in the other. He reads the newspaper and tries to ignore the stiffness in his shoulders, returned despite the warm slack previously enjoyed from the shower. 

With the singular focus gained from his time in the military, John clears his mind, forcing his attention back to the newspaper. Reads the news, politics, the latest sports updates. Skims the classifieds, then the obituaries, the local crime summaries. There is a short write-up about the case they just solved, though that part of the story hasn’t hit the papers. John steers his focus away from thinking about yesterday and reads an opinion piece about Brexit.

A phone begins to ring. It isn't John's, sitting on the table beside his elbow. The sound comes from near the front door, trilling through the living room—Sherlock’s phone. 

The sound jingles through the quiet air, and John hesitates. It rings and rings, and his legs are moving, carrying him to the heavy wool jacket hanging on its hook beside the door. John fishes the phone out and answers the call. “John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ phone.” 

“Oh, hey, John.” The voice on the other end belongs to Lestrade. Predictable, expected. As ordinary as any other day, aside from the fact that John is answering Sherlock’s phone at, he checks his watch and swallows, almost noon the day after a case.

“Hi." John walks toward the hallway, staring down at the closed door.

“Is Sherlock there?” Lestrade asks. “I’m guessing if he is, he’s arm-deep in something strange, since you’re the one who answered.”

John pauses, breathing out a long, slow breath. “Actually, I think he’s still asleep.” 

A beat of silence. “He did look tired yesterday.” Lestrade’s tone is level, measured. John immediately picks up on the tension beneath.

“Yes,” he says, “he did.” 

A pause before Lestrade replies. “Well, let him know I called, okay? Might have a case. Could be a seven.”

“Right. Okay, sure.” John nods, clearing his throat. “I’ll let him know.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Yeah, no worries.” 

John rings off. He looks down at the phone, a solid, hard weight beneath his curled fingers. Turning around, he makes his way to the closed bedroom door. Pauses, then slips inside, rotating the doorknob slowly. 

The room is dark, curtains closed, and John can just make out Sherlock’s shape beneath the comforter. Dropping the phone on the bedside table, he kneels beside the bed.

“Sherlock?” he calls, his voice a murmur. No answer. Frowning, John reaches out, laying a light hand on the lump beneath the blankets, wiggling gently. “Sherlock.” 

Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock’s head lifts. His eyes are dark and shadowed, and his face is paler than the night before, something John would not have thought possible.

“John?” Sherlock mumbles, his voice a heavy rasp. John eases closer, reaching out to smooth an errant curl away from Sherlock’s eyes. He pauses, both of them going still at the contact. Sherlock’s gaze is glazed, and he blinks slowly. 

“Hey,” John says, soft-voiced, choosing to soldier on and ignore the brief, awkward moment. He tucks his hand against the mattress. “Lestrade called. It’s past noon. I’m surprised you’re still in bed.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, eyes unfocused on the space between them. John waits, patient, fingers tightening on the sheets. When Sherlock focuses back on him, his brow is furrowed. 

“I’m tired,” he says, an undercurrent of surprise beneath the words. John swallows a strange, foreboding premonition. Pushing aside the thought that something is _wrong_ , very, very wrong, he forces a smile onto his face.

“Well, that’s okay.” John pats Sherlock’s arm, keeping his tone casual, light. "'Bout time your body finally forced you to slow down.” He tries for levity, but the words sound strained, and he can’t stop looking at the confused, uneasy look on Sherlock’s face.

“Right," Sherlock replies, and leans into John’s comfort, an unexpected softness rounding his usually hard edges. John swallows a sudden lump in his throat. _Wrong._

Sherlock shakes his head with a quick, jerking motion as if brushing off cobwebs. “I suppose I’ll get up now.” John rises, stepping back to make room, and Sherlock swings his feet off the edge of the bed. He pauses, a strange look on his face. John takes it in with trepidation. He hesitates on the verge of moving forward and squashes the sudden, inexplicable urge. 

Sherlock rises to his feet. Holds himself still for a moment. He raises his head, shoots John a look of wide-eyed fear that strikes John in the chest, and, taking a step forward, immediately stumbles. 

“Sherlock?” The name emerges from John’s mouth heavy with concern. Sherlock raises a hand, shaking his head. He is staring at his feet as if he has forgotten how they work. 

“John,” he says slowly, his voice level and bland. The sound of his name in that tone makes the hair stand up on the back of John’s neck.

“Yes?” John replies, almost a breath. Sherlock looks up at him, his mouth a tight, tense line.

“Something is wrong.” 

John’s stomach drops. 

**Day 5**

Usually, trying to get Sherlock to go to the doctor is like pulling teeth. But this time, John doesn’t have to fight with him or beg.

He makes the suggestion for a check-up, just to rule anything serious out, and Sherlock agrees. Just like that. No argument. No whining or angry tantrums. Sherlock only nods, holding up his arm for John to help him stand, and lead him from the flat. He sways, off-balance, trying to plant his feet on solid ground. John loops a loose arm around the detective’s back, making the gesture as casual as possible. Like it is something they do every day. Like it is entirely normal, absolutely ordinary, for John Watson to put his arm around Sherlock Holmes. 

John feels like he’s in that movie, _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. Everything feels just slightly adjacent to right. As if this isn’t his life anymore, and he’s just watching everything as it happens, completely outside of his control. This feels wrong, standing here with his arm around Sherlock, hand on the thin curve of his hip and waist. Of all the times he has imagined this, or something similar, it has always been at Sherlock’s invite. Not because of necessity, but because of want. Because Sherlock would want this—would want _him_. Would want John. 

But that is not what is happening. Instead, John stands with Sherlock leaning against his side for support, for balance. There is a bitter taste in his mouth, one that reminds John of fear and endless, sandy horizons, and the salty, metal tang of blood in the air. 

A cab pulls up to the curb, and John takes a deep breath, giving himself a moment to focus through the panic struggling up through his forced calm. Sherlock waits, unperturbed, strangely serene and patient. Very much not like himself. A thought flashes through John’s head that Sherlock must be so uneasy about what the doctor might say that he is willing to allow John the chance to stall them.

Sherlock’s hand grips his arm, grounding John in the present. John looks up to see the detective studying his face with surprisingly soft eyes. “It’ll be okay,” Sherlock says, and the words feel like a slap in the face. 

Here is Sherlock, struggling to walk as if his legs have forgotten how, comforting John. Where is his soldier instinct? Where is his calm in the storm? Sherlock needs him now. Not as John Watson, the man who would fall to pieces at Sherlock’s feet if he so much as asked, but as John Watson, the soldier, the reliable force of nature. The man who would and has put a bullet in the face of someone who wished Sherlock harm. 

John nods and pushes a steely smile onto his face. “Of course,” he replies, helping Sherlock into the cab. His spine is stiff and rigid, and he makes sure his face shows nothing but solidarity and comfort. Sherlock shoots him a strange look, one John chooses to ignore. 

Now is not the time for Sherlock to worry about him. 

* * *

It’s a tumour. Has to be. Something in the back of John’s mind knows, even though he tries to reject the thought. John listens to the doctor drone on about scans and tests, so they can be sure, but he hears the undercurrent of certainty. He hasn’t said the word yet, not exactly. Still, he is hinting that it’s likely something to do with the brain or the spinal cord. John’s been around the sun enough times as a medical professional to recognize the signs.

Loss of coordination and balance. Changes to his sense of touch, such as feeling pain instead of normal sensations. Difficulty concentrating or recognizing familiar objects or situations. Like failing to recognize a television show they’ve watched together for the past two years. 

Sherlock had squinted at a National Geographic magazine in the waiting room. Held it so close to his face, his nose had almost touched the glossy pages. John had watched but remained silent. Now, he checks off another two symptoms: difficulties reading and impaired vision. 

It must be in the parietal lobe. To John’s knowledge, Sherlock hasn’t hit his head recently, and he has slept and eaten, if only a minuscule amount. John has seen him in many scenarios, both good and bad. He has seen him wild with fear, boredom, frustrated anger. Seen him cornered, belittled, and questioned. Stumped, bewildered, and bemused.

John has never seen Sherlock like he is now, sitting in silence with his hands hovering over his lap as if touch might bring him pain. It probably will. One hand shakes, intermittent, and John has a brief, darkly amusing thought, that they match. The fingers on his left hand jerk as if in sympathy, and John bites hard at his bottom lip. The doctor’s words filter through the discordant haze of his thoughts, and he forces himself to focus.

“We’ll do a CT Scan and an MRI to rule out anything in the brain.” 

_Rule out_ sounds suspiciously close to _confirm,_ and John’s jaw tenses. Sherlock is still sitting like a statue. John can hear the slow whisper of his breath, smooth and even, over the detective’s parted lips. If not for that, the man might be an empty shell.

“Mister Holmes?” the doctor prompts, and Sherlock comes to life with a slow blink of his eyes. 

“Okay,” Sherlock replies. His voice is soft, empty of anything harsh or rough-edged. John itches to reach out and take his hand, the one still shaking just above Sherlock’s left knee, but he represses the urge and pulls in a deep breath. 

“John?” Sherlock turns to him, his eyes expectant. Deep in their pale depths, John sees himself reflected and feels the silent anxiety—the _fear_ —beneath Sherlock’s calm voice. 

“Yes,” John says, swallowing around a hard lump in his throat. “Yes, I’m here.” 

**Day 9**

The scans confirm it. There is something there, growing in Sherlock’s brain. Just as John assumed, it is in the parietal lobe. They sit in the doctor’s office four days later. Sherlock’s eyes look dazed and empty when the doctor—who introduces himself again and with great patience, as Doctor Sandhu—details the results of the scans.

“We need to do a biopsy to determine exactly what we are dealing with.” The doctor stretches out his legs. He sounds tired, and John looks him over with a grim face. This is all too familiar, and he finds he does not appreciate being on the less clinical side of this moment.

Sherlock is like a statue at his side again, his back stiff against the hard chair.

“What exactly does that entail?” John asks, trying to break the following silence. As if he doesn’t know. As if Sherlock doesn’t likely have that information already slotted away in that immense brain of his.

Doctor Sandhu nods and folds his hands together on his desk. “We will take a small sample of the mass. It will be tested for cancerous cells, which will help us identify what we are up against. The mass is not very large, which is reassuring, but we must be certain if it is malignant.” He hesitates, then adds, “Likely, it has been there for a while. We talked about your recent symptoms, but have you noticed anything leading up to the last few weeks?”

Sherlock shakes his head, looking at the floor. Doctor Sandhu’s eyes dart to John, who shrugs. “I didn’t notice anything until recently,” he says, and the doctor nods.

“That may be good news.” He flips through a folder on his desk, reading silently for a moment, before looking back up at them. “I’ll schedule the biopsy for Thursday if that works?”

Sherlock is silent. John, who knows his schedule perhaps better than the detective himself, nods for him. “Thank you,” he says, and Sherlock stays silent.

**Day 15**

“It’s what we call an oligodendroglioma tumour. Type II, non-cancerous. Slow-growing.” Doctor Sandhu’s voice is level, calming. John stares at the man’s hands, folded primly together on his desk. Sherlock shifts in his seat, and John darts a look his way, noting his stiff posture. His hair is thinner near the top, left side of his head, where a patch was shaved for the biopsy. As Doctor Sandhu continues, John wonders if that is where they will perform the surgery for removal.

“The recovery rate for non-cancerous oligodendrogliomas is quite high. And you are young and healthy.” He nods, looking confident. “I have no fear that this will be anything other than routine. Given the secondary scans, we can see that there has not been any new growth. The tumour has not invaded any adjacent tissue. I think we will be able to remove most of it, and if any remains, radiotherapy will take care of the rest.”

Sherlock stares at his hands, at the floor, at the wall. Anywhere but at the man sitting across from them. John hesitates before reaching out, touching two fingers to the slender jut of Sherlock’s wrist. The detective doesn’t look at him, but his raised, tense shoulders loosen just an inch.

“Will there be any permanent damage?” Sherlock asks. His voice is strangely empty, devoid of all emotion. John swallows hard, his free hand tensing into a tight fist. Of course, Sherlock will want to know the risks. He is always insistent that his brain is all he has, all of who he is. He has every right to worry.

John pushes his fisted hand beneath his thigh, trying to hide the minor display, projecting solid strength toward Sherlock.

Doctor Sandhu pauses. When he speaks again, it is with a cautious tone. “The procedure, a neuroendoscopy, is minimally invasive, as far as brain surgery goes.” He waits, eyes searching Sherlock’s face to find him following along without confusion. Nodding, he continues. “As with any surgery—especially any involving the brain—there are certain risks. In this case, much less so than more invasive procedures. But, yes, still a risk.”

Sherlock’s face tightens, the skin around his eyes tensing. “What are the risks?” he asks, and the doctor taps a finger against the desktop, counting them off.

“As with any surgical procedure, there is the risk of infection. Inflammation, bleeding, fluid accumulation. Brain surgery is complex, but this will be very minimally invasive, and likely no issue will arise.” He hesitates before adding, “obviously, I cannot make any promises, but the risk is fairly minimal with this technique.”

“How does it work?” Sherlock asks, and the doctor smiles.

“We will make a small borehole in the skull—possibly two—to insert the tools we will use to remove the tumour. Very minor, very safe. You will not even need to stay at the hospital for long after. Just enough to recover from the anesthetic and to rule out any negative results.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens at the words ‘negative results’, and John gives his wrist a light squeeze. Sherlock’s head tilts briefly toward him, but his eyes remain on the doctor.

“All right,” he says, and John’s chest aches.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock mounts the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. His hand grips the railing with white-knuckled pressure, and John walks behind him, giving space but ready in case he loses his footing. 

Sherlock makes it to the flat without incident and immediately drops onto the couch. There is a weird look on his face, and John pauses on his way to the kitchen. He looks at the detective, and Sherlock raises his head, a helpless glimmer in his eyes.

“I can’t close my hand, John,” he says, and John’s own hands clench into brief fists. Forcing them to release, he approaches the man on the sofa, sinking onto the arm. 

“It’s an expected symptom,” John tells him, and Sherlock opens his mouth to reply. No sound comes out, and his face twists, first with a flash of fury, and then vulnerable desperation that rips right through John to his very core.

“Why, John?” Sherlock asks, and John knows he isn’t asking how the tumour has partially paralyzed his fingers. No. He is asking that unanswerable question asked by all patients faced with the sudden and terrifying betrayal of their bodies. 

John shakes his head because there really is no response. There never is, and that doesn’t change because it is Sherlock sitting in front of him. Sherlock, and not a vague stranger, a patient of his. John finds he cannot even offer the bland platitudes he would offer his patients because they would be ingenuine. Empty of meaning. Sherlock sees through everyone, and he _always_ sees through John, and John cannot even give him the façade of comfort. 

Instead, he slips off the arm of the couch and to the cushion. Grips Sherlock’s shoulder with a steady hand, the other quaking, shoved beneath his thigh to hide the shakes. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says, and the detective’s eyes go dark. “I know it’s not fair, and I’m sorry.” Something shatters in Sherlock’s face, and John doesn’t try to stop himself. He doesn’t fight back the urge to reach out and hold, to grip and pull close and soothe. His arms slide around Sherlock’s bent shoulders. John holds the furious, bewildered man against his chest, letting Sherlock’s sharp, angry breaths blow warm and humid against the front of his jumper.

They stay that way for endless minutes, Sherlock with his face pressed into John’s chest, his hands resting lightly on either side of John's waist, and John with his palms cupping Sherlock's too-thin shoulders. Later, John will make them both tea and coax Sherlock into eating something. Maybe they will look through the website for some easy cases, ones Sherlock can solve through the keyboard. Watch a little tv, and then head to their respective beds. 

But, for now, John holds Sherlock, and Sherlock lets himself be held. He lets John keep him together with his doctor-soldier hands. Neither of them speaks, lest the moment shatter into something neither of them can repair. 

For now, they just exist. 

**Day 19**

Doctor Sandhu prescribes Sherlock steroids. They make him irritable and achy, and his formerly smooth, clear skin starts breaking out in clusters of acne. The detective haunts the flat like a stroppy apparition, caught between bouts of borderline-mania and exhaustion. More than once, John wakes in the early hours of the morning to Sherlock pacing the sitting room, grabbing at the furniture to counteract his impaired balance.

One morning, John listens to Sherlock bumping into the chairs, and to his soft cursing, and realizes it doesn’t sound quite right. His heart thudding loudly in his ears, John shuffles out of bed, throwing a robe on over his pants and t-shirt. Making his way down the stairs, blinking sleep from his eyes, John hovers just inside the sitting room.

Sherlock is standing against the desk, half-slumped with his hip braced on the edge. His hands are over his face, twitching. When he looks at John, he opens his mouth and tries to speak, but the words are all slurred, and a helpless scowl twists across his face.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, walking into the room and coming to stand beside him. “Sherlock, it’s okay, it’s to be expected.”

The blank stare Sherlock shoots his way makes John’s chest tighten, and he bites hard into his lip to resist the urge to show his reaction on his face. It is clear what has happened, with Sherlock looking at him like that, as if John speaks to him in an entirely foreign language or gibberish. 

Sherlock can’t understand what John is saying.

“Come on,” John begins, then stops, because Sherlock’s jaw is working in angry tics, clenching and releasing in rhythmic anger. John breathes deeply and reaches out to smooth a hand over the detective’s arm. Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a loud breath of his own, and John hurts for him. He aches for the man before him, who, until recently, had strict control over his body before it rebelled against him in every way possible.

John mimes sleeping, folding his hands together and placing them under his head, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Sherlock shakes his head vehemently, and John just nods. He lets Sherlock lead him to the couch, and they both sit there for a while, in silence. Sherlock’s breathing is loud and uneven, and his hands keep twitching in his lap. John takes them in his own and holds them tight, trying to make the movements stop. They don’t, but Sherlock looks at him with such gratitude, that John doesn’t even consider letting go.

They sit there until the sun begins to rise, breaking at the horizon with a soft golden glow that suffuses the living room in a warm hue. John folds Sherlock’s hands between his, their bodies inclined together. Sherlock looks out the window with half-open eyes, watching the city come alive.

Almost an hour after John first rose from bed and found the detective in the sitting room, Sherlock turns to him, his gaze bright and open. “John." The slurring is gone, leaving Sherlock's voice calm and clear. “Thank you.”

And John smiles and hums, “Of course." There’s nothing more he needs to say. Everything he could possibly give voice to is held there, between them. In John’s hands, cradling Sherlock’s. 

**Day 25**

The day of the surgery draws nearer. Sherlock’s steroid-induced insomnia keeps him pacing the flat at odd hours, while his mood deteriorates. Try as he might, John, more often than not, cannot calm him. His efforts are increasingly met with biting remarks and scathing insults, to the point where John has to take some space. 

“I’m going to meet Lestrade,” he tells Sherlock, interrupting the detective’s fifth tantrum of the day. Sherlock pauses, going stiff and still. He is standing on the sofa, Union Jack pillow in hand, deriding John’s very existence. There is nothing soft nor warm about him in this moment. Just sharp edges and furious words, and John needs a break. 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock replies, his tone shocked. John stands his ground, swallowing down a bitter taste. 

“I said, I’m going to meet Lestrade. For a pint. I just…” he gestures a vaguely, and shrugs. “I need to go out for a bit.”

“I _heard_ what you said,” Sherlock snaps, climbing down off the couch. His arms windmill for balance, and his lips curl in a fierce snarl when John reaches out, offering help. “Don’t touch me!” 

John retracts his hands with a sigh, stuffing them in his pockets. “Right,” he says, and clears his throat. “Anyways, I won’t be long. Maybe an hour or so.”

Sherlock drops into his chair, refusing to look at him. Every inch of his body is inflexible and closed-off. John closes his eyes for a moment, reminding himself that it’s not Sherlock’s fault. Not really. But that doesn’t mean it hurts any less when Sherlock mutters, “Fine, go, then. I don’t need you. I don’t _want_ you here.” The words are sharp, biting, and John sighs. 

“Okay,” he replies quietly, trying not to sound as depleted as he feels. “I’ll...I’ll be back later.” There is no reply from Sherlock, who curls into a tight, angry ball in the chair. John tries again, “There’s leftover soup in the fridge. Try to eat some, okay?” Nothing. John rolls his eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience. “Sherlock.”

“I _heard_ you,” Sherlock spits. His eyes are blazing when he looks at John.

“All right, fine.” John tries to keep his voice level, tries to remain neutral. But there’s an edge to his words, and he knows Sherlock hears it. Biting back any further angry retorts, John turns on his heel, grabbing his jacket on his way out the door. He just needs a moment, an hour or two somewhere away from all of this, a brief respite. Surely, he deserves that much?

John fails to convince himself, and the faint stirrings of guilt follow him out the door, onto the sidewalk outside of the flat. When he pauses, looking for a cab, he glances up, back at the building. He catches a glimpse of a tall figure before the curtain in one of the windows falls back. Letting out a loud, heavy breath, John decides to walk. His head buzzes with pent-up frustration and a bone-deep feeling of helplessness, and he could use the exercise. 

He sets off down the sidewalk, trying not to look back again. 

* * *

“Here.” Lestrade sets a pint in front of John. “You really look like you could use it.” 

John reaches out and wraps his fingers around the glass with gratitude. “Thank you.” He takes a mouthful of the cold, foamy beer, and swallows with a groan. “God, that’s good.” 

Lestrade offers a smile and drops down onto a stool across from him, pausing to sip his own beer before fixing John with a quizzical look. “How you holding up?” he asks, and John tenses, hand tightening. Lestrade’s voice softens. “It can’t be easy.” 

“I just—” John falters, closes his eyes for a second. “I feel _so guilty_ ,” he whispers, dragging a finger through the condensation, forming a ring on the table. “Like I shouldn’t be upset when he’s a total prick, because it’s not really his fault, and he’s going through something terribly unfair. But, I just…” he shakes his head, frowning at a bead of sweat trickling down the side of the pint glass. “It sucks,” John says, finally, and Lestrade nods.

“I know, mate,” he replies. John looks up, and the DI shifts. “Okay, maybe I don’t _know_ , but I’ve known Sherlock for years, and sometimes I don’t know how you put up with him on a _good_ day.” He raises his hand, cutting John off when he opens his mouth to speak. “Nah, hear me out.” John subsides, and Lestrade goes on. “Sherlock has never been an easy personality to navigate, and I’m not surprised something like this has made him worse. Just, don’t be so hard on yourself, all right?”

John stares at the beer, watching bubbles rise in the amber liquid. “He’s not always like that,” he mumbles and hears the helplessness in his own voice. “Sometimes, he’s…” the words trail off, images flashing through his head: Sherlock, with his cheek against John’s chest. Sherlock resting his head in John’s lap, the television flickering faint blue light over the sharp angles of his face. Sherlock, squeezing John’s arm before they got in the cab, on the way to that first doctor appointment. He closes his eyes, breathing slowly. “It’s not his fault.”

Lestrade leans across the table, clasping John’s arm with a steady, reassuring grip. “Doesn’t mean it’s not still hard,” he says, and John opens his eyes to the small, sympathetic smile on Lestrade’s face. 

“Yeah.” John forces his own little smile, nodding. “Yeah.” 

* * *

After two more pints, John makes his way back to Baker Street. He had stayed longer than planned, Lestrade coaxing faint laughter from him with amusing stories and light-hearted jokes. John feels a hint of guilt, but pushes it away as best he can. It is only fair that he take time to center himself, and shed some of the stress that has been building on his shoulders since Sherlock first stumbled at that crime scene. 

Stepping through the heavy black door of their flat, John closes it behind him, calling up the stairs, “Sherlock? I’m back.” There is no response, and John bites his cheek lightly, hoping the detective is sleeping. Not that Sherlock does much of that these days, but he can still hope. 

Toeing off his shoes, he hears a crash from above. He is already moving before his brain can analyze the situation. Boots kicked to the side, John lunges up the stairs, skidding across the landing as he enters the sitting room. “Sher—” the name dies in his throat at the sight before him: Sherlock, on the floor, on his back, body shaking and jerking in unnatural movements. His eyes roll up into his head, the tendons of his neck standing out in sharp, tight rigidity beneath the skin.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John gasps. He goes to his knees, grabbing Sherlock by the hip and his shoulder, rolling the detective onto his side, toward John. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” Sherlock’s arms and legs thrash, uncoordinated and messy, and John keeps him propped on his side, watching foamy spit-up trickle out the corner of his open mouth. He waits it out, murmuring comforting words until the seizure finally ends, and Sherlock slumps, his body falling still. 

Fitting his fingers gently beneath Sherlock’s jaw, John finds a pulse, fast but strong, and listens to Sherlock’s breathing. He uses his sleeve to wipe spit from the corner of Sherlock’s lips and waits for him to come around. His heart thuds loudly in his ears, and he forces himself to breathe through the panic. Gradually, with hands that feel numb, John digs his phone out of his pocket and dials for an ambulance. He gives them the details, outlining Sherlock’s situation, and the address, and hangs up. 

By now, Sherlock is emerging from his postictal state, blinking his eyes open slowly. They look dazed, distant. It feels like ages before his focus returns, and he zeroes in on John’s face, his own twisting with confusion. He opens his mouth, then winces, and raises a hand to touch inside. Sherlock’s fingers emerge tinged red with blood: he bit his tongue. He looks up at John with confusion, and John soothes a hand over his back.

“You’re okay,” he tells him, heart clenching at the frightened, puzzled expression on Sherlock’s face. “You had a seizure—it can happen with the tumour where it is. You must have bitten your tongue.” He grips Sherlock’s arm, rubbing little circles against the fabric of his housecoat with his thumb. “I called an ambulance. They’ll need to take you to the hospital, have you checked out to make sure there isn’t any damage.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, then tense in a frown. He doesn’t seem able to speak, but when he touches his fingers lightly to his own temple, John understands. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft. “They’ll make sure your brain is okay.” 

Sherlock looks equally relieved and terrified, and John shifts until his legs are straight out in front of him. He leans against the bottom of the sofa and hauls Sherlock over, bracing his back along John’s chest. Sherlock closes his eyes, tilting his head to press his face into John’s neck.

“John,” he whispers, and John hears the unspoken there, beneath his name. The silent, _I’m sorry._ John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s chest, holding him close.

“You’re okay,” he replies, imparting his own coded message in the response: _It’s fine. It’s all fine._

The wail of sirens blares in the distance, growing louder as the approaching vehicles near Baker Street. Sherlock’s breathing is low and uneven, his eyes closed, eyelashes tickling the sensitive skin of John’s neck. Cradling Sherlock’s body against his stomach, John feels weighed down by his guilt. 

* * *

At the hospital, the doctors check Sherlock over, run some tests, and deem him as healthy as someone with a brain tumour can possibly be. He and John are left alone in the quiet room, Sherlock laying in the bed like a limp doll, eyes sunken in his pale, drawn face. His mouth turns down at the corners in a pathetic moue, and John aches with guilt.

He can’t help but feel responsible. Maybe, if he had stayed home, Sherlock wouldn’t have had the seizure. No matter how many times he tells himself that isn’t how it works, that his presence alone could not stop the symptoms of a growth in Sherlock’s parietal lobe, John feels heavy with remorse.

“Stop it.” Sherlock’s voice breaks into his ruminations, and John shakes his head, startled out of his thoughts. Seated in an uncomfortable chair beside Sherlock’s hospital bed, he blinks, looking at him. Sherlock is staring back, his face unreadable. “Stop blaming yourself, John.” His hands tensing around the edge of the scratchy blanket pulled up to his chest. “It’s not your fault.”

John doesn’t answer, looking down at his hands. He flexes his fingers, feeling the tight pull of skin over the knuckles. He keeps his eyes on the stretch of tendons and joints and doesn’t reply.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs. “Please.” The undemanding tone of his voice makes John look up. Sherlock’s face, though tired and tense, is more open than he has seen in days. Sherlock looks him in the eye, and slowly, deliberately, reaches out to cover one of John’s tense hands with his own. “I don’t blame you, John. And neither should you.”

Staring at him, John feels a deep twinge in his chest, like a fist tightening around his heart. He swallows hard, nodding. The air grows heavy and sparking between them, and his breathing quickens. Something changes in Sherlock’s face, a strange look of understanding that darkens his eyes. John licks his lips, nervous energy thrumming through his body.

The moment feels charged, feels like balancing on a precipice, and John finds he has to clear his throat before speaking. “Sherlock—” he begins, with Sherlock looking at him expectantly, his eyes wide and—hopeful?

The door to the room swings open, and Doctor Sandhu enters, clipboard in hand, white coat fluttering around him. He looks tired and dishevelled. 

Recovering from the moment, the intensity snapping and seeping away with a crack between them, John realizes it is nearing 10 pm. Doctor Sandhu was likely called in from home, and John offers him a sympathetic smile. In the bed, Sherlock frowns down at the blanket draped over his body, his expression pensive.

“So, Sherlock,” Doctor Sandhu begins, either unaware or choosing to overlook the tension slowly dissipating in the room. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock digs a nail against a loose thread in the blanket. “Tired,” he replies. His voice is heavy with exhaustion, his lack of sleep bleeding through. The doctor looks him over, his eyes sharp.

“Issues sleeping?”

Sherlock nods, silent, and John sighs, sitting up in the chair. “He’s barely been sleeping at all,” he states, and Sherlock’s eyes close. “Insomnia has been a problem.”

“Hm.” Doctor Sandhu’s response is a low hum in his throat, and he makes a note in Sherlock’s chart. “I’m going to prescribe you something to help with that. We need you in good health before the surgery.” He scribbles another note before looking up again. “I’ll schedule you for a pre-op physical, two days before the surgery next week. Make sure you’re up for it.”

Sherlock nods, still not speaking. The doctor studies his face, eyes flicking to John, who shrugs. Doctor Sandhu inclines his head, once, understanding the silent gesture. Looking back to Sherlock, he clears his throat. “Your tests look good otherwise. I have no concerns about any lasting impacts. You’re welcome to head home if you’re ready.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, in a small, hushed voice. John shoots him a look, and the detective’s face is blank. He turns back to the doctor with a mild smile.

“Thank you, Doctor Sandhu.”

The doctor nods. “I’ll leave some pills with the nurse at the front desk—you can take one tonight, get some sleep. Don’t forget to pick them up when you sign the discharge forms.” With that, he is gone, likely to head home once more, his work done for the night. John looks at Sherlock, who refuses to meet his eye. John sighs, feeling the last humming remnants of the almost-moment dissipating in the cold, sterilized air.

“Come on,” he says, standing. “Let’s go home.”

**Day 32**

The day of the surgery brings with it a sense of excitement and dread. The emotions curl tight in John’s stomach, and he watches Sherlock in the cab, sitting beside him with his hands folded in his lap, face inscrutable. 

There has been no mention of the crackling moment between them the night of Sherlock’s seizure. Instead, they have danced around the building tension without bringing it to attention. There have been no more seizures, the sleeping medication has helped Sherlock sleep, and he has passed the physical and been cleared for surgery. 

On the way to the hospital, John’s throat burns with so many unspoken words and aching promises, he feels he may choke on them. But they stay lodged in his chest, deep in his lungs and behind his clenched teeth, and the ride passes in silence. 

Sitting in the waiting room, John feels everything he wants to say bubble up, burning on his tongue. An intern arrives to take Sherlock for his pre-op prep. Sherlock looks at John with uncertainty, and John swallows his own selfish feelings, fixing a pained smile on his face.

“It’ll be okay,” John tells him, reaching out to grip Sherlock's hand. “You’ll be okay.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, he just looks at him. He stares at John’s face as if committing it to memory, and nods. The intern leads him away, and John sinks into a hard chair to wait. Heavy thoughts swirl in his head, uncertainty chasing trepidation through his mind. 

_If Sherlock doesn’t make it—_

_What if this is the last time I ever see him, and I never said—_

_I should have told him—_

John shakes his head, trying to dispel that bone-deep _what if._ Sherlock has to come out on the other side of this. _Has to_. He has saved John Watson more times than John himself can count, and he refuses to accept a world where Sherlock Holmes is not a part of it. 

He settles deeper into the chair, cinches his hands tight together in his lap, and waits. His head lolls, eyes drooping, anxiety dragging him into a lull. 

John is roused several hours later by Doctor Sandhu, standing over him with a hand on his arm. “John,” he says, and John sits up straight, his back going stiff and taut.

“How is he?” The question spills forth immediately, and the doctor smiles. John’s tense shoulders drop, just a fraction.

“Sherlock is fine. The procedure went perfectly.” Doctor Sandhu allows himself a small, self-congratulatory smile. “He is sleeping off the anesthetic. I’d like to keep him overnight for observation, but I think he should be fine to go home tomorrow, as long as he shows no signs of any post-op issues.”

John knows the list of possible things that could go wrong—the knowledge is ingrained deep in his body. _Clots. Infection. Delayed allergic reaction to the anesthetic. Brain bleed. Sudden and unexpected swelling._ He knows all this, knows it like gospel, but feels the heavy weight of relief sink over him anyway. 

“Can I see him?” he asks, and Doctor Sandhu nods. 

“He’s still not awake, but I don’t imagine it will be much longer before he is.” 

He leads John down the hall to an elevator. The floors tick away, shooting toward the post-op recovery wing, where Doctor Sandhu walks him toward a door, nods, and leaves. John hesitates. He oscillates outside the room until a surgical nurse shoots him a strange look from the nursing station, and John drags his feet on the way into the room.

Sherlock looks small and pale, a bandage wrapped around his head. His hair still peeks from beneath the edge, and John feels a strange relief to know they didn’t shave his entire head. 

Dropping into a seat at the side of the bed, he settles in to wait. After a moment, he allows himself to reach out, enfolding one of Sherlock’s long, pale hands in his, mindful of the IV drip. Sherlock will be uncomfortable, the boreholes likely sore, but that will come after. Later, he will wake, confused for a moment, and he will complain of the heavy smell of disinfectant in the air. For now, John sits and holds that long-fingered hand in his, feeling the weight as a comfort. 

**Day 35**

Though Sherlock’s surgery is a success, Doctor Sandhu tells them in a post-op follow-up that he was unable to remove the tumour in its entirety. He seems unconcerned. Confident they will be able to kill off anything remaining with radiotherapy. If not, then chemotherapy. Sherlock is blank-faced, and John takes notes, nodding in place of Sherlock’s silence. 

The ride back to 221B is quiet and strained. Sherlock’s hair is a wild mess, shorter in a few places where the boreholes are still healing, the thick black stitches set to be removed next week. Showering has been a chore, Sherlock refusing John's repeated offers of help.

The storm breaks when they arrive home, Sherlock trailing after John as they climb the stairs.

“Sherlock,” John begins, turning once the door closes behind them, “are you okay?”

Sherlock raises his head from slipping his coat off and goes still. “Okay?” he repeats, his voice low and empty. Something tightens in John’s chest, and he swallows. His body tenses, as if steeling for a blow.

“Yes,” he says slowly. Sherlock’s face shatters and breaks. It comes apart at the seams, revealing wretched, twisted anger beneath.

“No, John!” Sherlock spits, his hands curling into fists. John watches them nervously, dragging his eyes back to Sherlock’s face to catch his furious words, “I am not _okay_ , why would I be _okay?”_

John clears his throat. “I just—” he begins, but vitriol and vulnerable, aching fatigue pour out of Sherlock, a veritable flood of uncertainty spilling from his unhappy mouth.

“You just what, John? You are always _just._ For once in your goddamn life, I wish you would just _be_ , just _do_.” 

Sherlock’s words are pointed, angry, furious and hurt, and John cannot make heads nor tails of the meaning held within them. He suspects, if he were to look deeper in himself, deeper beneath the words, he might understand. Might know that the answer to Sherlock’s silent question sits in his own chest, but John can’t. He can’t do this, not now—not when Sherlock is so vulnerable, and John is supporting him through tenuous recovery and poor health. John is Sherlock’s friend, but he is also a doctor, bound by an oath. He can’t step out of that role. Not even when he aches to spill his insides out and confess that he feels it, too. 

John feigns ignorance, even though he knows Sherlock will hate it, will hate _him._ “I don’t…Sherlock, what are you saying?”

Long-fingered hands rise as if to grip hair and tug, but Sherlock seems to remember his stitches in time and drops them back to his sides. The fight runs out of him all at once, and he sags, shoulder propped against the wall. “Nothing, John.” Sherlock sounds worn out, emptied. “I’m not saying anything.” 

Feeling helpless, John stands frozen in place, watching Sherlock with miserable doubt. His own hands clench and release, and he aches. Aches to reach out, as always. Aches for an armful of Sherlock. To press his face against the detective’s neck, his cheek. Breathe him in and fill his lungs with everything that is Sherlock.

Sherlock stares at him, a thousand unasked questions in his eyes that John cannot hope to sort through. He shakes his head, mouth open and empty. Sherlock’s eyes darken, then narrow, eyelids falling to heavy half-mast over his glacial gaze.

“Never mind, John.” He turns away, disappearing down the hall into his bedroom. The door closes with a shockingly loud click, and John feels like the floor has fallen away beneath his feet. 

**Day 39**

Radiation therapy begins shortly after Sherlock’s post-op appointment. He leaves and returns alone, refusing to tell John when the appointments are. Even once John catches onto the schedule, Sherlock snarls at him, demanding he stay away. Things continue this way for a few weeks, with John forcing himself through the motions of day-to-day life. 

Sleep. Wake. Shower. Eat. Work. Tesco shop. Pay bills. Eat. Clean. Offer help to Sherlock. Be yelled at by Sherlock. Fail to understand why. Stew. Sleep. Rinse and repeat. It is a cycle of exhaustion. John is _exhausted_ , weary down to his bones. 

Sherlock looks thinner, paler. He is like a ghost. Just as tired as John, though likely more, as the radiation eats into his body. His symptoms begin to recede, but they are soon replaced with side-effects. John buys soup, heats it and leaves it in Tupperware containers for Sherlock. He barely touches them, but he eats, even if it is sparse and cannot possibly be enough.

Things continue this way a while longer, with Sherlock blocking John, locking him out with silence and his closed bedroom door. John spends most of his time hovering in the sitting room or walking through nearby parks. Sometimes he walks in the rain, letting it soak him to the bone. 

On one such day, he returns to Baker Street, clothes sopping and dripping from an icy downpour. He climbs the stairs with a bone-deep chill in his bones, dreaming of a hot bath. Making it to his room, he strips off his wet clothes, throwing on lounge pants and a ratty t-shirt before returning to the first floor.

When he moves toward the bathroom, John stops in the open doorway, taking in the scene: Sherlock, curled up on his knees, bent over the toilet bowl. He is shaking, skin ashen and tinged green, his face twisted with what John can only assume to be intense nausea. As he watches, Sherlock tenses, curling tighter into himself, then retches, his back vibrating with the force of his vomiting.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmurs, stepping into the bathroom. He moves slowly, ready to retreat from any indication that his presence is unwanted. But Sherlock just sits back with a groan, tilting his head back against the wall. His eyes close, his face faded to white and glimmering with sweat. 

John drops down to his knees. Ignoring a twinge of stiffness, he lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “How long have you been throwing up?” he asks. Sherlock swallows with difficulty, the action marked by the dip of his throat. 

“Two hours,” comes the reply, weak and raspy. John’s chest clenches.

“I’m sorry.” He strokes a palm down Sherlock’s curved spine. “Did you try to take anything?” 

Sherlock nods and gags weakly, slumping with his cheek against the toilet seat. “It… didn’t stay down,” he manages, finally. John wraps an arm around his chest, sliding over to let Sherlock lean against him, rather than the germ-covered toilet seat.

“All right,” John replies, rubbing Sherlock’s arm. “It’ll pass eventually. I know it doesn’t feel good.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twists into a grimace. He opens his mouth, likely to spit some sharp, scathing retort, but retches again instead. His body shudders, and it feels as if he might shake apart in John’s arms. John tightens his hold, tracing soothing patterns on Sherlock’s back when he collapses against him. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he murmurs, imparting a deeper meaning beneath the words. John doesn’t specify precisely what he is apologizing for. Still, he doesn’t need to, because the statement encompasses everything: them, Sherlock’s sickness, their endless lack of communication. 

The heavy, static-charged heat that rumbles between them thrums in the air, refusing to be repelled by Sherlock’s shaking vulnerability and John’s perpetually bleeding heart. He wears it on his sleeve and cradles Sherlock in his lap, grounding him as nausea bends him over the toilet bowl for almost another hour. 

By the time Sherlock’s nausea abates, he is a quivering, faint mess. John waits, counting out twenty minutes without any further puking, and hopes the storm has passed. 

“Come on,” he says, extricating himself from Sherlock, bending to slip an arm around his thin torso and help him to his feet. “Let’s get you into bed.” Sherlock nods, eyes closed, letting John lead him through the door connected to his bedroom. John settles him on the mattress, lifting the blankets. “Be right back.” 

Leaving Sherlock for privacy, John returns to the bathroom. Tidies any remaining mess and fills a glass of water. He wets a cloth and returns to find Sherlock beneath the covers, the comforter pulled up to his chin. His clothing—heavy with sweat—is a piled heap on the floor. Setting the glass and cloth on the bedside table, John retrieves the pile of clothes, dumps it in a hamper beside the wardrobe, and approaches the bed. 

Sherlock blinks at him over the blanket with slow, heavy eyes. “John,” he mumbles, voice strained with a throat likely made raw from stomach acid. 

“I’m here,” John replies. He retrieves the damp rag and perches on the edge of the bed. Sherlock watches, his face blank and strained with fatigue. John leans forward to wipe Sherlock’s clammy face with the wet cloth. Sherlock's eyes slide shut, and he sinks into the pillow with a grateful expression. John cleans Sherlock’s face in slow, soothing drags of the cloth until Sherlock’s breathing slows, and the tension eases away from around his mouth. John carefully rises, moving toward the door on tiptoes. A voice calls him back. Low, rasping, it drifts in the darkened room and makes John freeze.

“Stay.”

John turns, his brows rising, to find Sherlock watching him, eyes half-open. He hesitates, but Sherlock licks his dry lips, repeating himself with a voice made leaden with fatigue.

“Stay, John.” It is half request, half demand, and John finds himself unable to refuse any part. He nods, turning around. Sherlock nestles deeper beneath the comforter, everything hidden but the top of his wild hair. John stifles a smile at the sight and slides into the bed. His own hair has dried since his walk in the rain, though there is a faint, clammy chill lingering on his skin.

Sherlock shifts closer, radiating feverish heat. This close, John can see the chapped skin of his lips, and the peeling beginning on his skin, signs of the radiation treatment. It will soon begin to blister, and John makes a mental note to pick up Vaseline tomorrow. Sherlock’s cheek is pressed to the pillow, eyes closed, breathing in little warm puffs toward John’s face. 

The steady rhythm of his inhales and exhales lull John into sleep, warmed by Sherlock’s feverish skin beneath the blankets. 

* * *

John wakes with a hot arm across his chest in the morning, a warm body pressed up against his back. Sherlock’s nose digs into the nape of his neck, and John wants. He wants this, so much that it hurts, but he can’t take it when Sherlock is in this state. Not when Sherlock is too vulnerable to know if he is reaching for John because he wants him, or because Sherlock, in his illness, needs John. Sherlock can’t make that decision right now, not with a clear mind, and John isn’t going to make it for him. Not on purpose, and not by accident. 

Slipping out from under the arm curled across his chest, John pulls the blankets over Sherlock and leaves the room on hushed feet. Sherlock doesn’t stir and, when he rises later that day, he doesn’t mention waking alone. He shoots John a sideways glance where he sits eating toast and reading the newspaper, but they don’t discuss it. John helps Sherlock through several following bouts of nausea and vomiting. The bed-sharing does not occur again, though that night presents a change in Sherlock’s manner. Gone is the cold shoulder. Sherlock informs John of his radiation treatments, leaving the unspoken invitation hanging in the air. John takes it, grabbing on for dear life, and accompanies Sherlock to each one. John presses their knees together in the waiting room and pretends he doesn’t want more.

He can’t want that, not right now. John swallows down his feelings, pastes a steady smile and stable expression onto his face, and helps Sherlock soldier on. Just as John has soldiered on, all these years. 

Sherlock’s stitches come out, and they celebrate with a Chinese takeaway and crap telly. Sherlock manages to keep down the small amount he eats, and John’s smile is too big to hide. Only four weeks left of radiation, and Sherlock’s outlook seems to be improving. He is still pale and nauseated, dragging with exhaustion, and the Vaseline barely helps keep the blistered skin on his face from bleeding, but he seems a little stronger. A little brighter. John can see his old self beginning to emerge. 

The feeling is dashed away while John sits in his chair in front of a warm fire, reading a cheesy spy novel. Sherlock walks into the sitting room from the hallway, hands splayed before him, palm-up. John puts down the book and looks at him, and finds Sherlock’s face a miasma of unreadable emotions. A chill falls over him, and he tries to stop his mind from racing into overdrive with the panicked potentials.

“Sherlock?” John rises, walking toward the detective. Sherlock seems rooted in place, eyes fixed on his hands. “What’s wrong?” He stops a foot away, and Sherlock holds out a hand, staring at the floor. Leaning forward, John swallows a heavy sigh.

Resting in Sherlock’s hand, cradled in his dry, red palms, is a handful of curls. Dark and thin, but still recognizable. 

“Oh,” John breathes, his lungs empty of anything else. Sherlock’s eyes shift to his face, and, holding John’s gaze, he lifts a hand. Pulls it through his curls, the fingers coming away with clumps of hair tangled around the knuckles. 

“It’s just hair,” Sherlock says, his voice strange. Steady. Almost too calm. John’s left hand twitches, fingers curling, and he bears down to make it fall still. Sherlock looks at the handful of curls, then back to John. “It’s just hair,” he repeats as if commenting on the weather. There is a dazed look in his eyes as if this makes everything real. “It’s just hair.” He sounds hopeless, reaching for something, anything, to ground himself from a freefall. 

“I know,” John replies. He says it with quiet empathy. “It will grow back, Sherlock. It will. I doubt it will be permanent.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, curling his fingers tight around the shed locks. “I know.” He stares at the handful. “It’s just hair.” 

A strand hangs in his eyes, and Sherlock reaches up with his free hand to brush it away. It curls around his finger and comes loose, and Sherlock’s eyes fix on it, wrapped around the joint. He looks at it for a long, agonizing moment. John holds his breath, his left hand clenched into a tight, shaking fist. 

Finally, as if breathing for the first time after nearly drowning, Sherlock sighs. He opens his hands, and the hair drifts to the floor, dark against the red carpet. “John?”

John looks up from the discarded hair, meeting Sherlock’s sharp eyes. “Yes?”

Sherlock’s face hardens. “I need you to help me with something.”

John nods. His mouth is dry, and he licks his lips. “Anything.”

“Shave the rest. Please.” 

Swallowing, fighting not to choke at the breathless feeling in his throat, John tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Okay,” he says, and Sherlock lets out a deep breath. 

* * *

He used to dream about this, about running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Maybe on the couch, during one of those rare moments when Sherlock’s head lands in his lap. Maybe while standing outside, catching wind-blown curls between his knuckles, sun reflecting Sherlock’s brilliant smile. Perhaps while in bed with sweat cooling on their bodies, tangled together beneath twisted sheets.

But not like this. Never like this. 

The locks fall away with brittle ease, the silver gleam of the scissors shearing Sherlock’s dark hair close to his skull. John brushes his fingers through it, silken strands wrapping around his knuckles, carefully working away knots and tangles as he cuts the hair short.

“Ready?” he asks, pausing to settle a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. After a moment, Sherlock nods. John tilts forward to look at his face, finds it pale and tense, Sherlock’s mouth a thin line. His eyes are hard, staring straight ahead as if refusing to look at the hair on the floor will erase the entire reason behind the buzzcut. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, the word clipped. John spares a glance for the short curls left, feels a pang deep in his chest that this is the first time he gets to touch Sherlock’s hair, and it is because of a tumour in his brain and turns on the razor. 

The device buzzes in his hand, making Sherlock flinch. But he settles again, shoulders slumped. John closes his eyes for a second, finding resolve and opens them. Reaches out and braces a hand on the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock quivers at the contact, or perhaps at the sound of the razor, moving nearer as John leans forward. John looks at a sparse, balding space, where Sherlock’s hand came away with a palmful of hair, and sets the buzzing edge against it. His hand moves in a smooth, straight line, from base to forehead, and the shortened hair falls away. 

_It’s just hair_ , John tells himself, silently mouthing the words. _Just hair._ Another pass of the razor, another path through the fragile locks. _It’ll grow back._ Shorn curls drift to the floor, scattering over Sherlock’s shoulders and John’s knees, and he squints around a damp feeling in his eyes. _I_ _t’s just hair._

Sherlock remains still, sitting stiff-backed until the last of the hair is shaved away. He stares straight ahead, a statue. 

Once the buzzing falls silent, John switching the razor off, Sherlock begins to shiver. 

“Cold?” John asks, knowing that it’s more than that, so much more. That now, when Sherlock looks at his reflection in the mirror, he will have a much more forceful reminder of his body’s own betrayal. More blatant than the pallor of his skin, the thinness of his figure, the red, angry presence of blisters on his face and lips.

Sherlock nods, and John’s heart aches. In silence, he guides Sherlock to the couch. Wraps a blanket around his bowed shoulders. Sherlock stares at the floor, at the hair littering the carpet, and John turns away to clean it up. On his hands and knees, he sweeps soft curls into a plastic bag.

Sherlock’s eyes burn into his back, and John’s left hand won’t stop shaking.

**Day 45**

Sherlock refuses to leave the flat for a week. He haunts the sitting room like a gaunt ghost, curling up on the sofa in his housecoat with unfocused eyes. A slight fuzz grows over his skull, then disappears after more radiation treatments. His eyebrows and lashes are sparse and thin, and, when he opens his mouth, the sores on his lips crack and bleed.

John does his best to keep him comfortable. Mrs. Hudson even comes up to coo and fuss. Sherlock doesn’t snap at either of them. Doesn’t rage or complain. Just sits and barely replies. He eats when John brings him food, drinks tea when offered. Mrs. Hudson knits him a warm, soft beanie, and he wears it almost constantly until she knits a second, and he rotates between them.

Rain rattles against the windows that entire week, soaking John to the bone anytime he steps outside, seeming to echo Sherlock’s grey mood. When it finally breaks, sunlight shining through the dense, endless clouds, John is adamant that something must change.

“Get up.” Feet planted, John stands over the couch, looking down at Sherlock. The detective looks back with dull eyes, sunken into a white face. John feels a deep, heavy pang of sorrow at the sight of the once exuberant, energetic man, brought down to something that appears so fragile. He shakes himself, steeling his resolve. “Come on, Sherlock,” he says, tugging at the sleeve of his dressing gown. “Get up.”

“Why?” Sherlock's question is heavy with ennui. John’s lips tighten, and he almost loses his will to push. How can he fight Sherlock on this, lying here in pain and endless nausea?

But he must. He has to. John will not let Sherlock waste away on the sofa, not when they are a week away from the last cycle of radiotherapy. The end is in sight, and John needs Sherlock to want to live again, because he is a shadow of his former self, and recovery will not be easy.

“We’re going outside,” John tells him. Sherlock’s brows rise, then drop, and he scowls, mouth turning down at the corners. A scab on his upper lip cracks open and bleeds sluggishly. John fights back the urge to wrap the detective up in his arms and hold him until all of this is over.

“Why?” Sherlock asks again, and John’s hands curl.

“Because you need to,” he replies. He sucks in a breath and soldiers on. “Because I said so.”

“No,” Sherlock mutters, turning his face into the back of the sofa.

“Sherlock—”

“I said no, John.”

John’s hands are fists at his sides, and he digs his knuckles against the muscle of his legs. “Please, Sherlock?” he asks, and cannot help the faint plea that slips into his voice. “Please, I—I need you to. Please, Sherlock. Come outside. Just to the park.” Forcing his hand loose, John reaches out, touching Sherlock’s knee. He pushes a weak smile onto his face. “Just to the park.”

Sherlock stares at him. His eyes shift, roving back and forth between John’s. His tongue, white and dry, darts out to swipe over his bottom lip. John holds his place, breathing slow and even as his heart pounds out a wild rhythm in his chest.

Slowly, so slowly, Sherlock nods. Just once, but it is there, and John feels as if a massive weight has lifted from his shoulders. Air rushes from his lungs in a loud sigh.

“Thank you, John,” he says, the smile on his face a little stronger, a little surer. “Thank you.”

* * *

They walk through Regent’s Park in a slow stroll. Sherlock is wearing Mrs. Hudson’s knitted hat, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. After fifteen minutes, he begins to falter, his steps slowing, turning clumsy. Taking his arm, John guides him to a bench. They sit, watching people amble through the park. They watch dogs chase sticks and birds and listen to the excited noise of children enjoying the first sunny day in what feels like years.

“John?” Sherlock says, breaking into John’s silent thoughts. He looks over to see Sherlock gazing across the park at a pond, where two swans swim gracefully through reflective, calm waters.

“Hmm?” John hums, waiting while Sherlock seems to gather his thoughts. His mouth opens, closes, then opens with a soft sigh.

"Did you know swans mate for life?" he asks, his expression thoughtful. John tilts his head. 

"I didn't."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “Thank you.” He turns, looking at John, who swallows down a tightness in his throat. Sherlock’s vivid eyes are the clearest they have been in weeks, shining with a glimmer of vitality John has missed since everything began.

John smiles. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nods and looks back at the swans. He and John remain there for a while, letting Sherlock regain his breath and gather his strength. When they finally stand and resume their walk, Sherlock reaches out, taking John by surprise. He catches John’s hand in his, holding it tight.

Fingers twined together, they walk back toward Baker Street.

**Day 52**

A week later, Sherlock walks out of his final radiation treatment. He is exhausted, feet dragging, but there is a powerful calm in his pale face, and John feels something like steel beneath Sherlock’s skin when he helps him into a cab.

That evening, despite his nausea, Sherlock eats the entire bowl of soup John sets in front of him and half of another. John is genuinely pleased and achingly proud, but he knows Sherlock would likely snap at him if he said so. He remains quiet, smiling behind his newspaper.

Afterward, they settle together on the sofa to watch the Graham Norton Show. Sherlock laughs at one of the guest stars, telling a story about when he was chased by a dog on a set. The sound is lovely, rumbling through John’s ears, settling warm and comfortable deep in his chest.

Sherlock’s hand finds his on the sofa cushion. When John sneaks a glance, Sherlock’s lips are curled into a slight smile.

**Day 82**

A month passes, and Sherlock grows stronger with each passing day. He still refuses to take off Mrs. Hudson’s knitted hats, but his skin regains some colour. For Sherlock, this means he looks less like paper and more like ivory, but it’s still an improvement. The sores on his face begin to fade and heal.

One morning, John wakes up to a familiar sound, one he has not heard in months. The low, plaintive notes of violin music drift to him from the first floor. He lays in bed and listens, watching the sunlight move across the ceiling, loathe to interrupt Sherlock’s gentle playing.

Half an hour later, the last note fades away, and John rises. Stretches and throws on sweatpants and a t-shirt. When he makes his way downstairs, Sherlock is seated in his leather chair, dressed in one of his suits. Still wearing Mrs. Hudson’s hat, but otherwise looking closer to his old self. The sight fills John’s chest with warmth, and he ducks his head to hide his smile, even though he’s fairly sure Sherlock sees it anyway.

“Morning.” John steps through the sitting room, pausing to retrieve the newspaper from the front door, left on a side table by Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock hums his response, thumbing away at his phone with rapid fingers. John darts a glance at him, noting the faint colour in Sherlock’s cheeks. Backlit by the windows, he looks healthy and whole, no longer a ghost slumped into the sofa with empty eyes.

“Breakfast?” John asks, and Sherlock’s eyes flick up to his face, then back to his phone.

“Please,” he replies, and John grins, turning to the kitchen to pop some bread into the toaster. He flips on the kettle and leans against the worktop.

“Lovely sound to wake up to this morning,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t look up again, but he inclines his head, indicating he heard. His fingers tap away at the phone, and John smiles down at two mugs as he dunks tea bags inside.

“Case?” he asks, returning with the mugs in one hand and a plate of toast and jam in the other. Sherlock looks up long enough to grab a slice, taking a hungry bite off the corner, and returns to his texting.

“Mhmm,” he replies, and John subsides, knowing better than to press. Settling into his own chair across from Sherlock, he shakes out the paper. His eyes skim the text, and he can’t help the warm relief that rises in his chest.

Sherlock’s fingers make soft, muted noises on the touchscreen of his phone. John reads a piece about striking teachers. Sherlock’s foot rises, his bare toes brushing John’s calf, and there is a comfort there, resting between them. It is unimposing and gentle.

All at once, Baker Street feels like home again.

**Day 96**

Two weeks later, John emerges from his morning shower to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming mug cradled between his elegant hands. He looks up as John appears and smiles.

John is struck by three things, almost simultaneously.

One: Sherlock looks happy. Genuinely happy, his bright, crooked smile an expression that has been a rarity for almost one hundred days. It lights up the kitchen far more than the pale sunlight filtering valiantly through the window.

Two: Sherlock isn’t wearing one of Mrs. Hudson’s knitted hats. For the first time since finishing his radiotherapy, his head is bare. Short growth, hardly an inch long, covers his skull, dark brown and fuzzy, but very much there.

And, three: John loves him. Achingly. Completely and without question.

He opens his mouth, with no plan for what he is about to say. But Sherlock is looking at him with warm, liquid eyes, that crooked smile on his face, and the words spill out before John can shape them in his head. Before he can form thought and consideration, he is speaking, the sound of his voice filling the warm space.

“I love you.”

John freezes, mouth going still around the final syllable. Sherlock’s smile slips a little, and his eyes go wide. A nervous tremour starts in John’s body, shooting into his left hand until it is a twitching mess.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, and his eyes drop. He stares at the table, blinking in rapid bursts. John’s stomach twists into knots, and his mouth goes dry.

“Ah—Sherlock, I—” the words rise in his throat, rushing from his mouth with a wave of panic. John’s chest feels tight, his face is hot, and he thinks he might actually burst into flame.

But he never makes it past that initial attempt at a retraction because he is cut off. First by the scrape of Sherlock’s chair, and the clatter it makes when it tilts back, onto the floor, then by large hands on his shoulders, cupping his face, tilting John's head up. By a warm, soft mouth on his, insistent and just the other side of demanding.

The kiss is gentle, almost hesitant. Sherlock’s lips brush his once, twice, then drift away, touching the edge of his mouth with achingly sweet uncertainty. Sherlock leans back, and John opens his eyes to find they are standing chest to chest, his hands locked in a tight grip at the front of Sherlock’s suit jacket.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs. The way he says John’s name makes John pull in a breath, stuttering over his teeth, down his suddenly tight throat.

“Yes,” John replies, even though Sherlock never asked a question. Even though he is responding to nothing. But it’s enough, and it is perfect because those lips are back on his. John’s eyes slide closed again, and he pulls Sherlock closer. Sherlock moves forward with the pull, backing John up until his back hits the wall. John sighs at the press of Sherlock against his front, and Sherlock breathes it down with parted lips. He makes a noise, low in his throat, a beautiful little groan that paints goosebumps over John’s skin, and has him cupping Sherlock’s face to bring him lower so he can lick into his mouth.

He tastes Sherlock’s tongue and his hot, tea-flavoured breath. Something tight and hard releases in John’s chest. The tension, the relentless, scraping fear of seeing what it might be like to lose Sherlock completely, loosens and dissipates. It leaves a sudden hollow in John’s chest, but instead of feeling empty, he immediately feels centred. Filled. Complete.

Sherlock hums against his lips, deepening the kiss, his hands grabbing John’s shoulder, arm, and back until John feels whole.


End file.
